Is there anything at the end of virality?
Imagine ourselves a couple of decades from now, sitting at a kitchen table, grown old with us, while our sons and daughters ask about our youth. They would ask what it meant to grow up at the beginning of this millennium, what Generation Z was really like beyond documentaries and recycled headlines. We would be called to remember, to explain, to portray the social traits and habits of an era still too close to judge clearly. It was a time bursting with novelty, contradictions, and restless energy. But the real question is: would we be honest? James Laurent has already answered that question. And he hasn’t softened the truth. In his latest album, Degen Z, the American artist offers a brutally sincere portrait of what is happening right now, turning everyday habits and collective obsessions into a generational motif. His words don’t romanticise the present; they expose it. What emerges is not nostalgia, but recognition.
Perhaps it’s the Christmas season, but my mind instinctively drifts to A Christmas Carol and the Ghost of Christmas Past, guiding Scrooge through moments he had chosen to forget. The ghost’s power was clarity. If we were visited by that same ghost today, what would we see? Peering through a random house window, we might find young boys glued to YouTube, immersed in multiplayer games, with headsets on and fingers racing across controllers connected to the latest PlayStation. Friends are present, but not physically; connection is real, yet mediated. This is not a critique, but a symptom of growing up online, of learning the world through screens before learning it through streets. Beyond gaming, another window would reveal the relentless presence of social media and the hunger for visibility. In the opening track, “Degen Z,” James captures our contemporaneity with surgical precision: “generational gameplan, do your dance, see if you can start that trend.” The ultimate goal is virality: a TikTok loop, a trending sound, a fleeting spotlight. But what’s the reward at the end of this chase? Mostly money, and an even more fleeting fame.
I say fleeting because notoriety today is paradoxical. It has never been so accessible, yet never so fragile. Everyone can have their fifteen seconds of glory on a virtual stage, but the stage collapses just as quickly. How do we get there? By making everything public: our joys, our failures, our mistakes, our so-called scarlet letters. James doesn’t shy away from this exposure; he names it. Lately, there’s been a growing tendency to post everything, especially the ugly parts. Sometimes it even feels as though the less morality there is in our actions, the higher the engagement climbs. Shock sells. Vulnerability performs. Controversy feeds algorithms. And this, too, is part of the game. The web is split into two: those who judge, comment, and fuel the algorithms, and those who watch without caring at all. This emotional detachment is another defining trait of the generation, a consequence of excessive freedom of thought and expression. Not caring becomes a shield. In “Antisocial,” James sings, “Did I ask? I don’t care.” It sounds rude, almost dismissive, but it reflects a deeper truth. Generation Z is often portrayed as radically individualistic, where singularity is prioritised over collectivity. Everyone walks their own path, often alone, often indifferent to the noise around them. James Laurent is officially an artist and sound engineer, but Degen Z proves he is much more than that. He is a painter of contemporary life, using distortion and lyrics instead of brushes. His voice doesn’t whisper; it shouts uncomfortable truths. He embodies the mindset of Gen Z youth culture: people in their twenties navigating a hyperconnected world where materialism and façade often replace intimacy and substance. It’s a world that has fought hard battles for expression and freedom, yet now seems quietly disillusioned by the outcome.
This is a generation that craves money and objects more than love, perhaps because love feels uncertain, conditional, transactional. James puts it bluntly: “Birkin, all these women ever seem to want. Love is only given when I flaunt. Love is nothing that I’ll ever want.” These lines are confessions shaped by the environment that produced them. With sharp rock edges and abrasive honesty, James Laurent is an artist worth listening to right now. Not because he offers comfort, but because he offers awareness. At some point, like Scrooge, we all need to look back through that window and truly see what surrounds us, not to condemn it, but to understand it before it fades into memory.